


Iridescence

by flyingllamas



Series: A lifetime never to be [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Kael would like to be the best wingman ever, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, With A Twist, but Rom's not going to let him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/pseuds/flyingllamas
Summary: So many soul marks turn to dust with the fall of Quel'Thalas and Silvermoon, sloughing off skin like the ashes of their city.Rommath counts himself lucky, for the first time ever, that his skin has always been bare.





	Iridescence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt in this tumblr thread: http://meanwhile-in-thedas.tumblr.com/post/172890867673/noconcernforyou-claroquequiza-zaiyofics
> 
> Beta'd by everyone in the Disaster Elves discord, but especially Rivkael! Thank you love! <3
> 
> As always, my tumblr is llamastheflying.tumblr.com if you wanna hit me up with any questions or complaints.

He is too old for this. Too old for the horrors that have wracked his country, too old for the sorrow that courses hotly through his veins like fire for everything lost this day, too old for the weary acceptance that settles in his creaking bones for the new way of life that awaits him.

 

Still, Rommath thinks bitterly as he curls up on the divan in his blessedly untouched flat, too tired even to make it to his bed, he can at least count himself lucky that he will not have to find it within his old heart to bring forth more sorrow for something, someone he has never had. Many things have been lost this day to his people and perhaps the most tragic of everything they have suffered is the halves of their souls, cleaved from them by an icy sword held by dead hands.

 

Some soul pairs remain but they are few in number. Certainly, they are fewer than the masses whose black, bruising marks upon their skin, proclaiming to all that they _belonged_ to at least one other, turned to ash and sloughed off their skin as parts of their souls perished under Arthas’ cold, soulless blade.

 

Too much had been lost to them: their souls, their lives, their lands.

 

Rommath finds bitter consolation in the fact that no mark disappeared from his skin that day, for there was never a mark to begin with. Some considered him blessed, born with a complete soul not halved and quartered and portioned out to others that might abuse it. Most considered him cursed, a wretched thing wandering through existence with no purpose to him other than selfishness.

 

Not many numbered either side for his unblemished skin was, _is_ a secret he has tried to keep to himself. Let his existence be a lonely one with no lover to look upon his body and let minds wonder what lay under his high collar, if not displayed on his barred arms, he reasoned. It would be an easier existence still than one both pitied and reviled for something that was never his to control.

 

That is not to say that he is not lonely. His heart screams and cries as he pulls a blanket over himself, left without comfort in the silence he offers it. Though he has never let himself ponder on it heavily, he knows some part of him does wish for companionship, for a fractured part of his soul that was never there.

 

Ash floats from his hair and robes to the surface of the divan, no doubt staining it, as Rommath tries to settle for what little sleep he can before dawn is upon him once again. He can’t find it in himself to care, to care about his scorched and blood-stained robes, to care about anything other than the flickering lights of pyre flames outside his window. What else could matter, he wonders, other than the future drenched with blood he has been thrust into?

 

As if the universe senses his silent plea for a moment of peace, a knock sounds from his door. He tries to ignore it, for surely whoever is there will be dissuaded by his silence and think him to be elsewhere. His visitor is not deterred and knocks once more.

 

“Leave,” he snaps, his voice quieter and hoarser than he would like it to be. The smoke from the bodies and the wreckage has flayed his throat raw.

 

The intruder knocks once more and Rommath growls, flinging the blanket from himself and storming over to the door. He throws it open and finds Lor’themar Theron standing before him. He is not unfamiliar with the ranger, but neither still can he say that he really knows the man standing in the street. He knows of his insufferable ways, his philandering and indiscretions with all that might have him, but knows also of his eye for strategy, his uncanny skill on the battlefield.  

 

The ranger looks to be faring better than when he last saw him at the impromptu war council earlier that day. His face is streaked with ash, as Rommath’s probably is as well, but it is devoid of the blood that streamed down it from his empty socket. Indeed, it is not a gaping, gorey hole that greets Rommath now, for someone has taken it upon themself to wrangle Theron down and bandage him before he could scar more of their already traumatized populace with his hideous injury.

 

“What do you want?” Rommath snarls. He has no care for propriety now, even if he is the newly appointed Grand Magister; all he craves is sleep and this insufferable ranger _will not let him have it._

 

Unfazed by Rommath’s naked aggression, Lor’themar lifts up something to the magister’s eye-level.

 

“Our prince was rather concerned for your well-being,” he says, “and asked if someone would check on you. I brought a meal, for no one seemed to know when you had last eaten.”

 

Of course Kael’thas had sent him. For all the weight that his friend bears on his shoulders now as prince of this burning country, he would be loath to abandon one of his dearest and longest companions in this time. Even if that purpose were in doubt, Rommath can smell a faint aroma from the cloth bundle in Lor’themar’s grip, a promise of a warm meal, the likes of which he has not had in over a day now. Instead of quelling his temper, Rommath’s lip curls.

 

“Tell me, did you draw the short straw for the pleasure of my company?” he asks unkindly. “You have seen me and fulfilled your duty. I will spare you from my presence further, so you may hand over the food and leave.”

 

Theron does not hand over the food. Instead, he cocks his head to the side and studies Rommath with his single eye. Rommath feels his hackles rise under the ranger’s inquisitive gaze.

 

“I do not believe Prince Kael’thas would be pleased if I left you as you are now,” Lor’themar says finally.

 

“Then let his displeasure fall upon me,” Rommath snaps again. “Your duty here is done, Theron.”

 

“Hardly,” Lor’themar argues back. “I may have fulfilled it in letter, but not in spirit. I believe that the prince would have you not spend this evening alone, at least not for all of it. If he could, he would be by your side now, if only to make sure that your heart does not sour and rot from the events of the last day.”

 

Rommath barks out a laugh, more spite and venom and shock than true amusement.

 

“You presume much, ranger,” he growls, “and I believe that you have overstepped your bounds here. My ever-fragile magi heart will not suffer for loneliness this night, nor for the lack of your presence, despite what your bullheaded ranger stubbornness may leave you to believe. Rather, it is kindled into a wildfire by the injustices this day and if concerned parties _would just let me sleep_ , then it will turn our enemies into ash.”

 

Still, Theron does not make to leave so Rommath takes a step back into his apartment and prepares to shut the door. Damn the food, he thinks, if he can at least get a moment of rest. Lor’themar does not let him go so easily and catches the door with a strong arm and presses against it hard enough to keep it from closing, but not hard enough to push Rommath further in.

 

“Our stubbornness is at a match, my friend,” he says and Rommath snarls at the implication of them being anything near _friendly_. “Close this door now and I will make sure that not a moment of rest finds you this night. You know my persistence to be true to this, do not try me.”

 

And Rommath does not, and does not doubt the ranger’s words. Silently, he steps back from the door and allows Lor’themar to push it in. He does not offer the ranger a friendly gaze and glares as Lor’themar finds the lock and slides it in place.

 

“What do you intend to do?” Rommath asks. “Nanny over me until the sun rises? Force food down my throat? I am capable of both eating and sleeping on my own, even if you rangers are not.”

 

Lor’themar ignores the jab and strolls past Rommath to the divan he intended to rest on before being so rudely interrupted. He puts the cloth bundle on the table before it, smelling stronger now that its aroma is not diminished by corpse ash and blood, and picks up the blanket from where it fell to the ground.

 

Rommath watches incredulously as Lor’themar folds the blanket neatly and drapes it over the back of the divan. Finally he says, “I do not intend to do either, but perhaps both the prince and I would be satisfied if I stayed until you were fed, and if you permitted me to comb the gore and ash from your hair...and maybe a game of cards.”

 

“Really, Theron, cards?” Rommath asks. He deliberately focuses on it, hoping to keep Lor’themar from touching him. He is capable of tending to his hair himself, even if his arms and hands do shake now as he reaches up to touch the frayed ends.

 

Lor’themar offers him a sly smile and asks in response, “Are you afraid of losing to a mere ranger, Grand Magister? Surely you would be able to outwit me even in a simple card game.”

 

The challenge is there and simple as it is, Rommath cannot help but to let his pride roar up. Lor’themar seems to know that Rommath would respond in such a way and smile broadens.

 

“Sit,” he says and gestures at divan, “and eat. I presume you have a comb or brush and oil in the next room?”

 

Rommath bristles even more at that but Lor’themar says, “If you can manage five strokes of a comb on your own, I will leave you be...but do you really want to humiliate yourself as such in front of me?”

 

Having his hair cared for by a total stranger was humiliating enough, Rommath wanted to point out, but he waved off the ranger towards his bedroom. He settled once more on the divan and untied the knot atop the bundle. A clay thermos of what looked to be lynx stew waited for him, along with a few nearly-stale rolls, some cheese, and a skin of wine. He removes his over robe and collar to polish off most of it and is sipping the wine when Lor’themar returned to the sitting room once more. He regrets the wine almost immediately; his damaged throat screams at him for the burn of alcohol.

 

Lor’themar sits on the divan beside him and pushes out his small coffee table with a dirty boot. Rommath glares at him but the ranger ignores him.

 

“Sit before me,” says Lor’themar. “It will be easier this way.”

 

With an angry sigh, Rommath acquiesces. He is careful to not let his back touch Lor’themar’s knees: he does not need further incentive to fall asleep and he knows from Kael’thas playing with his hair when they were younger (and oh, how he longs for those days now) that even the simple act of the ranger running a comb through his hair will make him drowsy.

 

He startles suddenly when he hears the singing of a blade drawn from a scabbard, preparing to scramble to his feet before Lor’themar can slit his throat. A hand atop his head stops him.

 

“Peace, Rommath,” says Lor’themar. “I only mean to cut the tie from your hair. It is so caked in blood that doubt you will ever be able to use it again.”

 

He withdraws his hand from his head and Rommath waits, waits for both his hair to fall from its tie, for the dagger to slit his throat even with Lor’themar’s promise. There has already been one traitor this day, why not another?

 

The ranger does neither and for a long moment, they sit in silence. Rommath looks over his shoulder at Lor’themar.

 

The ranger seems...lost in thought, perhaps. The look in his eye is almost dazed and Rommath clears his throat to get Lor’themar’s attention. “It seems I am not the only one in need of rest, if you drift off so.”

 

Lor’themar shakes his head and the look is gone.

 

“Do you have a candle or lamp?” he asks. “I would rather not miss a clump of viscera for you to find in the morning, with what dim light we have now.”

 

Rommath climbs to his feet with an exasperated sigh, grabbing the oil lamp from his small table where he sometimes took his meals. He whispers a small cantrip under his breath and a flame springs to life on the wick. He looks up to see Lor’themar watching him with the same thoughtful gaze.

 

“Your attention is wandering again, Theron,” he says and holds the lamp out the ranger. Lor’themar takes it and set it on the table before them, saying nothing as Rommath settles before him once more.

 

This time, the dagger does slice through the tie in his hair and it falls down onto his shoulders. He can feel the clumps Lor’themar spoke of and thinks that perhaps it was a smart idea not to look at himself in the mirror when arriving home. He would have seen a corpse, splattered in the blood of his people, had he looked.

 

He startles slightly again when Lor’themar combs his fingers through his hair. Thankfully, Lor’themar does not laugh at his actions and continues his silence. His touch is gentle as he carefully lifts small parts of Rommath’s hair, trying to pick out the largest bits of gore and ash. Rommath pushes his hair out of his face and unconsciously leans his head back, allowing Lor’themar more free reign. At some point, the ranger pauses to take his gloves off and tosses them on the coffee table before continuing to run his fingers through the magister’s hair.

 

Despite his resolve to stay awake, Rommath quickly finds exhaustion overpowering him. The rhythm of Lor’themar’s fingers combing through his hair allows it to wash over his body, ebbing and flowing with the ranger’s touch. By the time Lor’themar finally reaches for a comb, Rommath’s resolve has failed and he leans back against the knees behind him, head nearly cradled in Lor’themar’s lap with his eyes closed. Some part of him wants to be embarrassed that he’s acting like this in front of someone like Lor’themar, but it is quickly quashed down by the rest of him that is enjoying the attention.

 

“Do you have a soulmate? Or soulmates?”

 

The question is sudden and Rommath cracks open an eye. Lor’themar seems to be rubbing his fingers together, staring at them with the same look he regarded Rommath with earlier. Had he gotten oil or blood on them?

 

“Looking to confirm one of Silvermoon’s biggest secrets, now that you’ve seen me without my collar?” Rommath asks and he winces. It hurts even more to speak now.

 

Lor’themar unclips a skin from his belt and offers it to him. It is, blessedly, water, which won’t burn his throat like the wine.

 

“I have never paid much attention to the mutterings of Silvermoon,” says Lor’themar, “unless it directly concerns the Farstriders. No, I only wondered, for I have not seen anyone by your side.”

 

The comb glides through his hair, snagging on small tangles and ash and blood, but it is enough to lull Rommath back into closing his eyes once more.

 

“What about you?” Rommath finds himself asking sleepily, surprising both him and the ranger.

 

“You have not answered my own question, yet ask me one in return? How cheeky of you, magister.”

 

The ranger sighs and sets the comb aside. He starts combing his fingers through Rommath’s hair once more and Rommath almost feels like purring in contentment. It had been a long while, since someone had touched him like this.

 

“I do,” says Lor’themar. “I do have one. I only met them recently.”

 

“Congratulations then,” Rommath says flatly. “The world rejoices with you.”

 

“But not you.”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, ranger,” Rommath snaps. He tries to sit up, but Lor’themar still has his fingers tangled in his hair.

 

“I think it is,” Lor’themar pushes back, “You don’t think you have a soul mark, do you?”

 

“Theron, you are toeing a very fine line between continuing your existence as is,” Rommath growls, “and becoming a pile of ash. I would advise that you drop this topic now, if you would to continue existing.”

 

He tries to sit up once more but Lor’themar, damn him, has the audacity to tug him back down by his hair. The ranger quickly reaches over him and grabs the lit lamp and hands it to him.

 

“Look at your hair, if you would, Grand Magister,” Lor’themar says, “and tell me again how this isn’t my business.”

 

“You’re mad.”

 

“Call me that after you actually look.”

 

Rommath cradles the lamp carefully in his lap and snatches a lock of hair to hold before the light. At first, he truly thinks the ranger has gone mad: there is nothing out of the ordinary with his hair, beyond the fact that it is now free from gore and ash.

 

Then, he sees it as he moves his hand slightly. A flash of color, like oil upon water, streaks across his dark hair as the light dances across it. He twists the lock again, just to see the colors race again. His hair has always been a dull, coal black, lacking the luster and shine of many others around him. Whatever this is, it is _new_.

 

He flinches when Lor’themar’s hand softly covers his own. He sees now that the same iridescent sheen seems to spread from his hair to the tips of Lor’themar’s fingers, streaking down the back of his hand and over his palm. Lor’themar’s other hand reaches around him to take the lamp from his lap and Rommath realizes that he is trembling.

 

He wants to say something, but any words he has die in his throat. What comes out instead is a near-hiccup of a whine. This cannot be, he thinks. He is too old, lost too much, hurt too much in his loneliness to have this now.

 

Lor’themar releases the lock of hair and his fingers stroke down Rommath’s face before finding his chin. He tilts Rommath’s head back so their gazes meet. Neither say anything for a moment and they don’t have to, really. It is apparent what has happened, and what fate intends for them.

 

Finally, Lor’themar breaks the silence.

 

“I feared,” he says, “I would never meet you. That when I washed the ash from my hands from the pyres, that with them would come the marks staining my fingers for an eon. I feared, even more, that when I helped our rangers stack bodies upon the pyre that my marks would change, just as I lay you down to your final rest.

 

“I have lost so much this day, so much I can never hope to get back. I am so glad that I did not lose you.”

 

“You don’t know me,” Rommath gasps out finally, “so how could you despair to lose me so?”

 

Lor’themar smiles, gently, and both of his hands reach down to cradle Rommath’s face. His thumbs smooth across his cheeks, wiping away the tears that cut harsh trails through the ash caked on his face.

 

“I have always known you,” says Lor’themar. “And you, me. You have always been such an integral part of me, far from me though you were, and I can not help but love what makes me whole.”

 

“You don’t know me,” Rommath repeats, almost desperately. He, too, feels the missing piece of himself sliding into the place, the piece that has always been Lor’themar, the piece he has tried for years to no believe existed, even when it ached in his loneliness.

 

“Rommath,” Lor’themar sighs out and shakes his head. He is curled over Rommath now, his cornsilk hair falling down in a curtain, obscuring them from the rest of the world. “Rommath, please. Don’t pull away from this. I have lost so much today, do not make me lose you too.”

 

He leans forward then and presses his mouth Rommath’s own.

 

A part of Rommath wants to push him away, wants to slap him across the face. But there’s part of him, a part of him that makes his heart sing and makes him _alive_ , that kisses Lor’themar back, that allows himself to be coaxed into the ranger’s lap so that he can tangle his iridescent-tipped fingers in Rommath’s hair once more. Lor’themar kisses him once, twice more, his lips and tongue drawing violent shivers from Rommath as ice and fire run through his body all at once.

 

The ranger finally draws back a hair, to rest his forehead against Rommath’s own. He chuckles, his fingers tracing patterns on Rommath’s sides.

 

“As much as I would like to continue this,” Lor’themar says, “I do believe that you’re shaking from exhaustion.”

 

Rommath wants to point out that probably anyone would shake after being kissed like that, after finding their soulmate after spending all their life thinking such a person didn’t exist, but he settles with resting his head against Lor’themar’s chest. With anyone else, it might have been a sweet gesture, but Rommath tips his head up just enough to nip at a tendon of Lor’themar’s neck. The ranger hisses, not entirely out of pain, and his grip shifts down to Rommath’s ass, squeezing it and pulling Rommath harshly against him. Then, he takes a deep breath and pushes the mage back slightly from himself.

 

“Rommath,” he says and it’s almost a growl, “enough. We are both exhausted and need rest. I feel the same high you do, the same completeness and happiness that never before have I encountered, but there will be time for this later.”

 

Rommath tries to dip his head to nip at Lor’themar’s throat again but is stopped by a hand tangling in his hair and lightly pulling him back. He snaps, “If today was any indicator, I’m not sure we will ever find the time.”

 

Lor’themar ignores the venom in his voice and calmly combs his fingers through Rommath’s shimmering hair.

 

“There will be. I will make it, if need be. For all the horrors we have faced today, the worst is over I should think.”

 

Rommath grumbles, but settles in Lor’themar’s arms as the ranger continues to stroke his hair. He is on the edge of sleep when Lor’themar speaks again.

 

“As much as I’m enjoying having you with me, I think we will both regret it come morning if we sleep here.”

 

Rommath groans and mumbles sleepily, “Then take me to bed, if you’re so concerned about it.”

 

Lor’themar chuckles and stands, careful to keep Rommath in his arms. “Be careful who you say that to.”

 

“I know very well who I just said it to,” Rommath counters, “and the damnable man won’t take the offer for once.”

 

“When you are rested, Rommath.”

 

Lor’themar settles him on the bed and Rommath strips off his last few top layers, leaving him in the simple cloth trousers  he wears under his robes. They are, thankfully, spared from most of the grime of the day. Lor’themar cups his face gently and kisses him sweetly, forcing Rommath to recline back in the bed.

 

“You’re a tease and a monster,” Rommath says as Lor’themar tugs the covers over him.

 

“We’ll see if you’re still of the same opinion in a few days,” Lor’themar replies. He tries to step away from the bed, but Rommath catches his wrist.

 

“Stay,” he commands and Lor’themar sighs.

 

“I’m not going to--”

 

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking that you lay by me tonight. You are not immune from needing rest, either.”

 

Lor’themar rolls his single eye and pulls his wrist from Rommath’s grip. The mage expects him to leave, but Lor’themar removes his shirt and slips under the covers beside Rommath. Rommath can see that his eye was not his only injury. Bandages cover his arms and torso, the plight of a fighter on the front lines. Lor’themar draws him into his arms once more and Rommath goes happily, content with the warmth radiating from the ranger’s bare chest.

 

“If you steal the blankets, I’m going to take your other eye out,” Rommath grumbles ashe nuzzles against Lor’themar’s chest. The ranger only laughs and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

 

“If you must,” is the last thing Rommath hears before drifting to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Lor’themar’s hands are bare when they meet up with their small council the next morning. None of them are particularly well rested (even the hours they were able to sleep together were short), but the rainbows at the tip of the ranger’s fingers did not go unnoticed. Several curious looks are given to Lor’themar, but Rommath’s hair is only noticed when Kael’thas enters the tent of their council.

 

He tilts his head and Rommath could see his eyes tracing the iridescence in Rommath’s hair when the lanterns caught it. The prince opens his mouth to say something, but Rommath shakes his head minutely. Now is not the time, nor the place. Their kingdom came first, before Kael’thas’ thirst for drama.

 

He couldn’t hide it long, though. Lor’themar tries to catch his hand as they left the tent, after the council concludes. He does not swat it away quickly enough, and their exit is accompanied by a happy whoop from their prince, a spot of joy in an otherwise dark time. Kael’thas would likely pester them to no end for details later but for now…

 

For now, Rommath is content, for the first time.


End file.
